God Must Hate Me!
by Teen Dreamer
Summary: "Job had it easy," according to Corky Abrams. This hapless Christian teen's faith in God hangs by a thread after slipping into the seventh circle of hell: a week of increasingly outrageous, extreme and humiliating circumstances! Please R&R!
1. Prologue

_A/N: _Aloha! Teen Dreamer here, as you've probably already ascertained. Out of respect for those hard-working individuals here at _FanFiction.Net_, I've decided to go out on a limb, and – shock! – write a _fic_ here at our beloved Bible section. (The pronunciation of _beloved _was forced, by the way.)

This story is based on the Simple Plan song – incidentally entitled _God Must Hate Me. _ If I encounter any copyright technicalities because of this, I'll call the accusing party liars and run screaming from the room.

Enjoy.

**God Must Hate Me** by **Teen Dreamer**

**_Prologue_**.

D'you ever get the feeling you've been created for the express purpose of entertaining a higher being? Well……chances are, you haven't if you're not religious. But I am, so I think _that _little analogy is quite fitting to a situation that befell me not long ago……

My name is Christopher Abrams. People call me _Corky_, though God only knows why. I think it's one of those nicknames parents decide to bestow their children with _prior _to actually naming them, like _Bud_ or _Scout _or _Doogie._ I'm not especially partial to it……but the ladies seem to get a kick out of it. Which is fine by me. 

I've been a Christian since I was eleven. A _devout _one. Operating on a '_good deeds won't get you to heaven, but that's no excuse to not do them' _philosophy had made me quite the player in my church community (as if it's some sort of biker gang.) And with my selfless obedience came love & respect, of which I had in spades, if I do say so myself. 

I remember, when I was twelve, how the church elders would cluck their tongues & stroke their whiskers, musing over my influence as a child of God. There was nothing I couldn't accomplish with my go-getter attitude & boyish good looks. 

But the more observant of you may have picked up on my use of past tense.

There came a time when my entire world collapsed. Everything I had worked to establish – my reputation, my relationships and my dignity – was wrenched from my grasp and trod on with golf shoes before my very eyes. My mother affectionately refers to me as '_a modern-day Job' _after what I affectionately refer to as '_my week in hell.' _

It happened in my Senior Year at _San Marino High_ in California, back in 1997. Looking back now, it's kinda funny……at the time, I was suicidal.

If I remember correctly, it began on a day like any other……


	2. Monday

**God Must Hate Me **by** Teen Dreamer**

**_Monday_**.

"Cor-keeeee………"

I'll never forget the singsong voice of my mother that morning. Angelic to the untrained ear, but masking a sinister ulterior only I could identify. My eyes fluttered lazily open, and I pursed my lips away from the generous drool deposit that had accumulated on my pillow throughout the course of the night. Blurry double-vision soon focussed over the readout on my bedside radio.

"Mom, it's _five a.m_.!" I croaked, rolling onto my back to face her as she leant with her arms crossed against the doorframe of my bedroom. "What's the story? I took out the garbage last night."

"The water guy came by," she smiled, probably every bit as annoyed as I was, "Says they're gonna cut the hot water till after noon. So if you want a shower, now's the time."

"Right," I murmured, the reverberations of a deep slumber still evident. "Right, thanks, I'll be there soon."

"Be quick," she commanded as she padded back into the hall, "All the other tenants are doing the same, so you'll be lucky to get two minutes if you don't move your keester, meester."

"Alright, okay, I'm going!" I cried, staggering from the welcoming recesses of the bed. 

Unfortunately for me, _both _my feet were entangled in the bedsheet, so standing upright as I made the transition between horizontal and vertical proved challenging – nay – impossible for me. What was supposed to be a concise and agile pounce from the mattress became a stunning feat of uncharacteristic clumsiness as I fell face-first across the floor.

The sound of my bare torso slamming against the hardwood was like a gunshot marking the beginning of a long and painful marathon……

~ (0.0)~

Begrudgingly, I trod from my room to the bathroom, dragging a towel along the carpet behind me. Strangely, this also proved to be a mistake. Our dog, a rather excitable Dalmatian, skittered frenetically from the kitchen and grasped the free end of the fabric squarely between his glistening canines, a low growl rising from his throat as he fought to wrestle it out of my hand.

"MC Hammer, _no!_" I cried, officially awakened. Not to mention, officially irritated. "_No! _Bad dog……curse your spotted hide!"

 A rather demeaning battle ensued, (demeaning to me, at least,) as I fought to wrench the towel from the rabid animal's jaws. I settled on walking backwards into the bathroom, closing the door over the towel, and pulling it through the crack, giving my beastly opponent little choice but to release and retreat. 

"Let that be a lesson to you!" I called, half-heartedly trying to salvage my superiority over the animal kingdom. 

I draped the towel over the basin and undressed, climbing into the shower cubicle and indulging in the warmth of the steaming cascade, a more-than-welcome relief from the crisp chill of the late-Autumn climate. 

I guess I kind of lost track of the time as I washed, for as predicted, the neighbourhood's hot water supply ran cold – my blood following suit accordingly.

"_Huaaugh!_" I shrieked in a hoarse whisper as my eyes bugged from their sockets. 

A walrus would've been frostbitten under such an arctic bombardment. Pawing feebly for the shower door, I thrust myself out and away, stumbling rigidly about the bathroom in some vain attempt at restoring circulation. Furious drying offered some relief, omitting, of course, the fact that I had what appeared to be a large meringue of shampoo still lathered through my hair. 

I remember wanting to go back to bed. That always solves your problems, like restarting your computer, or escaping to Tijuana and changing your name. Murmuring numerous choice catchphrases under my breath, I wrapped the towel around my waist and braved the sub-zero sting of the basin faucet to wash out the suds. Quite thoroughly embittered, I opened the bathroom door and stepped back out into the hall.

Only to be on the receiving end of my dog's _'rematch,' _as it was.

MC Hammer snatched the towel once over, yanking it away from my waist and leaving me to sprint, bare naked, through the hall, thundering dozens of incoherent curses as I dashed toward my room. Past my mother in the kitchen, who raised an incredulous eyebrow at the spectacle as she sipped at her cocoa. 

"Poor dear," I head her coo matter-of-factly as she browsed over the morning paper.

I slammed the door behind me and paced, infuriated, into my closet. So far I'd been subjected to circumstances more befitting an episode of _The Jetsons_ than to the life of a God-fearing American teen. And I was not happy.

~(.)~

My Mom's an eccentric old hen. Like almost everything in my life, she's "difficult to describe." She's like Kathy Bates in _About Schmidt……_with less than half the sin! Consequently, life's never dull at home, as often as I wish it were. 

She became a Christian when I was nine. And boy, was it a trying time for the Abrams household. My father, Joshua Abrams, did _not _take the news well. I remember him murmuring the words '_fruity fundamentalist' _over and overas I watched him pack his bags that fateful evening not long after her conversion.

Because Mom didn't gently ease herself into the house of the Lord. She paraded in, streamers and all. A Born-Again Christian in every respect. And even though I was unfamiliar with the whole concept at the time, I felt strangely comfortable under her protection, so sole custody was given to her. Thank God.

She was in a particularly sugary mood that Monday morning. God forbid.

"You've got quite a masculine figure happening, Corky!" she chirped as I slunk towards the refrigerator. "Nice of you to exhibit it."

"Yes, very amusing," I replied, darkly.

I was clothed now, of course. A brown leather jacket, a chequered red shirt & loose-fitting denim trousers adorned my listless frame as I plopped into the chair and composed a meal for myself. 

"You've studied for your History Exam, presumably?" she asked, handing me a mug of black coffee.

"Thoroughly," I nodded, and it was the truth.

In addition to my spirituality, I was also quite the academic. I'd spent virtually the entire weekend studying for this afternoon's exam, and, gosh-darnit, I was not prepared for failure. Which was a shame. I do like to be prepared, you see……

~(.0)~

 "Holy shiznit, ma white brutha!" crowed Jason, my best friend, a deliberately stereotypical Afro-American teen, "You is lookin' down today, dawg!"

"Yeah, word up, G," I muttered, in no mood for our typical exchange of Ghetto terminology. 

"Seriously, what's the matter?" he asked as I fell into the bus seat beside him. 

"Rough morning," I sighed. "You ready for History?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," he yawned, looking out at the passing neighbourhood. "Oh, hey. I worked on a chord progression last night, you wanna hear it?"

"Sure."

He pulled a discman from his backpack and I wedged the headphones into my ears, a look of bemusement entertaining my features as I awaited another of his 'musical masterpieces.' (Jason was an aspiring DJ, for what it's worth.)

"Ready?" he asked.

I nodded as he hit _Play _and watched my face expectantly.

_Plink, plonk……**plownk!**_

_Plink, plonk……**plownk!**_

_Plink, plonk……**plownk!**_

"Whaddaya think?" he whispered, excitedly. 

"That's, uh……that's single-handedly _the most _mindless, repetitive and downright irritating progression of off-key notes ever to grace this poor discman, Jason," I said in response, with a cruel honesty only a best friend could demonstrate.

"Aight," he shrugged, "It ain't platinum yet, I'll admit. But I'm takin' it down to the Warehouse on Sunday, get it remixed – full techno, dawg! I'm on my way!"

"Yeah, techno," I smirked, "Just for that _extra _monotonous edge."

We shared a chuckle at that moment, as we engaged ourselves in a complex series of hand gestures typical of a fraternity handshake. And suddenly I felt better. Everyone has bad mornings. And I took heart as I dismissed the brief lapse of misfortune as just that.

But oh, how wrong I was.

~(0.o)~

Monday morning came and went, every bit as uneventful as it should have been. Between my normal lessons, I was consistently refreshing my memory in preparation for the afternoon's big test. I'd mentally archived entire Encyclopaedias, such was my dedication to success.  

And when the time finally came for the huddled masses of anxious adolescents to begin, I knew – like, the kind of elated sense of unmatched, heartfelt _knowing _you feel when you first become a Christian – that I was going to ace this. 

I dropped into my seat, murmured a quick, reassuring prayer, took up my pencil and focussed on the questions before me, with but one thing playing through my thoughts:

_Plink, plonk……**plownk!**_

_Plink, plonk……**plownk!**_

_Plink, plonk……**plownk!**_

'_Oh, God, no,' _I remember thinking as a cold sweat dewed over my fevered brow. The words on the page might as well have been in Kanji for all they meant to me. The warped three-chord synth progression from earlier that day had chosen what could _only _be described as the _most inopportune _time to resurface. Suddenly, my knowledge had abandoned me. My research had gone into hiding. My memory housed _only_ that irritating music, and I began to panic. 

The good thing about multiple choice exams is, you're never under any obligation to exercise real intelligence. There are four choices, one of which is always right. In this situation, however, there were still three choices too many, and that afternoon, _every one _of my answers was wrought with no definite confidence. I felt ill. 

~(.o);~

"Hold up, homeboy!" called Jason as I paced, infuriated, through the bustling hallway afterwards.

He came into stride beside me, cockier than Kelly Osbourne, and every bit as aggravating. 

"So, how'd you do?" he asked, obviously pleased with himself.

"I don't know how I did," I seethed in response, my sullen demeanour making a verbal explanation completely unnecessary, "Therein lies the problem."

"You gotta be _kiddin' _me, G!" he crowed, forcefully hooking my neck into a headlock, "You, of all people? Fifty bucks says you've got it in the bag!"

"Well, there's one good thing to come out of this," I grunted, wrenching myself free, "Fifty bucks at the expense of my academic repertoire. That test accounted for……what, fifteen?  Twenty percent?"

"Thirty percent of this year's curriculum, bro."

"Super," I snarled.

~(_)~

"Oh, _Corkeeeeeeee……!!!_"

"Looks like that's my cue to exit, Romeo!" snickered Jason, jogging away from me as I stood, dismayed, awaiting the inevitable. 

I turned around with reluctant expectance to face the woman who addressed me: Rebekah Sanchez. My mother's surrogate clone – the daughter she wished she had. Christian to the _max._ She was the fourth addition to the Trinity – The Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit & _Becky. _Everyone thought we were perfect for one another, but despite our spiritual similarities, her mega-enthusiasm kind of got on my nerves. Don't get me wrong, I'm not cynical – I'm just……down-to-earth, I suppose. 

But not Becky. She was on fire for God, with a smile bright enough to scald your cataracts, and the voice of a songbird that _just won't shut up! _To top it all off, she had the biggest crush on me, and made little, if any effort to hide it. Rest assured, she was the last person I wanted to encounter after this particularly sour day, but there we were. 

"Heya, Becky," I smiled weakly. "What's up?"

"Oh, the usual," she giggled with mock timidness, batting her lashes at me in what would have been considered '_seductively_' back in the fifties. "How'd you do in the History exam?"

"Yeah, peachy keen," I murmured, not wanting to think about it. "Listen, Becky, I can't stay and chat, I'm gonna miss my bus."

"Ooh, but wait!" she cried. "Is everything ready for Wednesday's campaign?"

"Wednesday's……oh, right! The Anti-drug Rally, I almost forgot!"

"Y'big silly," she giggled.

"Yeah, my bad. Um, I've got most of the banners done, all I really need to get a hold of is……the uh, drugs." 

"There's no shame in purchasing shady, back-alley marijuana in the interests of education, Corky," she said softly, her voice suddenly thick with emotion as she embraced me tightly. "You're such a brave man."

I sighed as I let her vicelike grip run its course. Unfortunately, it ran for longer than was completely necessary. Before I knew it, I heard the uproarious laughter of Jason and my other friends as they leered at us from the bus windows.

"_You are so beautiful……to meeeee………**can't you seeeeeeee?!**_" they howled as the bus pulled out of the parking lot, leaving me to go limp in Becky's arms as I watched my ride home disappear into the afternoon sun.

~(0`_'0)"~

"You're home late," Mom observed as I marched into our apartment, dumbfounded with rage.

"Missed the bus," I uttered as I flung my schoolbag into a corner and paced furtively into my bedroom.

"Well, how'd the exam go?" she called.

Her answer was a rather unceremonious slamming of the door. 

"_What was that all about?_" I immediately demanded at the ceiling, giving the proverbial heavens a glare dark enough to trigger the Second Coming of Christ. There was no denying my frustration. My fury. All I wanted to know was _why_. And He, above all others, was at perfect liberty to answer my question.

God and I have a very practical relationship, you see. For me, prayer is like a conversation with Jason. I sit, I talk, I vent my emotion with just as many worldly colloquialisms as a video game discussion at recess. This is both a blessing and a curse, depending entirely on how you look at it. A blessing, in that I have, in a sense, attained a truly personal relationship with Jesus – to the degree where I can speak to Him as if He's sitting at the desk reading one of my _Archie _comics; and a curse in that my matter-of-fact attitude often obscures a lesson He's trying to teach me – case in point, this evening. 

I kicked off my shoes and fell onto the mattress, still frowning as I mentally expressed my displeasure to the day's events at God. I was so caught up in my embittered musings, that I didn't notice my mother's presence until I felt the end of the bed depress. Startled, I bolted upright and almost concussed myself on the shelf.

"_Augh!"_

"Ohh, Sweetie!" said Mom, comfortingly. "Rough day?"

I fell back onto the pillow, periodically releasing laboured breaths as I clutched at my aching forehead.

"Like you wouldn't believe," I seethed through clenched teeth.

"Well, cheer up," she whispered, patting my thigh and leaning in for a kiss on my wounded brow, "Everybody has their 'off moments.' Why, just last week at the hospital, I confused a patient's penicillin dosage and sent the poor dear into a narcoleptic fit!" 

"A common mistake, I'm sure," I sighed, a little frightened by her morbid sense of humour.

"That's right, Corky. Common. Don't let it get to you. Things'll improve tomorrow, I'm sure." 

"Yeah," I yawned, feeling better. "Yeah, you're probably right. Thanks, Ma."

"Aw, anything for my _special little guy!_" she squealed, embracing me with a desperate motherly love more than a little reminiscent of Becky's. 

"Alright……alright, thanks, Mom. G'night."

"'Night, hon."

I rolled onto my side as she closed the door behind her. It was still quite early, but I wanted to catch up on the couple of hours' sleep I'd missed after being awakened prematurely that morning. I whispered a tired apology to God for my behaviour, begged Him to get the maddening _'plink-plonk-plownk' _out of my head once and for all, and drifted off to sleep with the promise of a better day tomorrow.

Boy, was _I _in for a surprise.


	3. Tuesday

_A/N: _Paragraph breaking faces omitted out of respect for K2. ^_^

****

**God Must Hate Me** by **Teen Dreamer**

**_Tuesday_**.

My eyes fluttered open.

_7:04am_.

"Neat," I yawned, rolling over and sitting upright. 

The definition of a bad day, I believe, begins with a rude awakening of some description: be it insanely early or stressfully late. Tuesday was neither, so naturally, I was at every liberty to assume the worst was over. I stood up, swayed dazedly on the balls of my feet for a short while, took a towel from the rack, and paced out into the hall, keeping myself in check, in case MC Hammer turned predator again. 

The dog, however, was absent.

"Hm," I shrugged, strolling into the bathroom before calling out to my mother. "_Mom! _Is the hot water still down?"

No answer.

I kept my cautious Rapture impulses at bay as I searched the apartment for her. 

"Mom? _Mo-_ah?"

There was a note on the refrigerator. 

_'Corky – Hospital called. Had to take an early shift. Didn't have time to pack your lunch. I still love you, but. And the cookies on the counter are for Becky. Sincerely, Mom. xoxox_'

"Confound it," I murmured under my breath, running a hand through my hair as I went back to the bathroom. 

From what I could deduce, the hot water _had _been re-activated. Its warmth eased my malcontent to no end, let me assure you, and before long, I'd gotten my groove back. Dressed & fed, I proceeded to casually prepare a lunch for myself as I listened to the morning traffic report on the radio. 

_"……Roadworks at the corner of Landcaster & Maple have northbound traffic re-routed down Main. The delay aside, several vehicles have fallen victim to the potholes surrounding the construction. If you're headed that way, be sure to slow down and do as you're instructed……_"

Yawning, I switched it off and dropped the brown paper bag into my backpack, zipping it up and slinging it over one shoulder as I departed. 

*

"Good morning, Mrs. Harding!" I smiled warmly as I passed the elderly woman who lived at the end of the hall. 

"Oh, Corky," she beamed meekly, squinting up at me through her enormous lenses. "You're _just _the young man I was hoping to see right now."

_Crap_.

"What can I do for you?" I asked, my politeness now feigned. 

"Those plumbing gentlemen – you know, the ones that shut off the water yesterday? I don't believe they've adequately completed their task."

"Well, how do you mean?" I asked.

"_My _hot water is still running cold, dearie," she lamented in a coy despondence _only_ a sweet old woman could muster. "I was wondering if you could go round back and check to see what the problem is?"

"Uh, sure," I said, checking my watch a little anxiously. "I'll be right back."

*

Of course I hadn't a clue of what the heck I was supposed to do, even if I _could_ identify the problem. I went down to the first floor, to the small patch of lawn round the side of the building, where the domestic water heater……thing……was. Unsurely, I removed the outer casing of a box housing the apartment building's network of pipes. 

"Well, here's your problem!" I called up to her as she peered over the balcony. "_Your _apartment's piping isn't hooked up to the water heater!"

"Oh, _would_ you, dearie?" she begged from above.

"Sure," I muttered, annoyed. "As long as the noose is around my neck, I may as well jump off the horse."

I took the length of hose at the base of the piping and looked for a place where I might have been able to connect it to the six foot cylinder before me. And, as luck would have it, there was. I latched it to an opening near the top and gave the frail woman a thumbs-up, the batty old sweetheart scurrying inside to test it out. 

I wished she hadn't.

Apparently, her hot water was on hiatus for a reason. For when she twisted that basin handle, a powerful, pressurised geyser of boiling H2O blasted me square in the chest, propelling me forcefully into the adjacent fence, where I fell into a crumpled, wheezing heap. 

"Oh, praise be!" I heard her cheer from inside. "It's working, bless your heart! It's working, it's—oh, dear. It's stopped!"

And judging by the unanimous cry of protest from virtually _all _the other apartments in the building, it looked like I'd killed the entire supply. Still gasping for breath, I staggered to my feet and didn't stop staggering until I'd nearly staggered directly in front of the oncoming bus. 

"Holy _cow_, boy!" cried our Kentuckian busdriver, Mr. Stern, "Nobody told _me _it was raining out!"

"Look harder," I croaked as I stumbled aboard, soaked from the waist up. 

As per usual, Jason was on hand to add insult to injury, bless him. 

"_Word_, G!" he laughed, slapping his thigh and wagging his tongue in jest. "Do I need to tell you what creek you look like you're up without a paddle?"

"Save your breath," I said in reply as I let my head fall against the glass.

*

Of course, my lunch & textbooks were soaked through. It looked like I was going to have to subsist on a juice box for the entire school day, and tolerate that awful prune contour of the damp pages as I made my displeasure known to God through clenched teeth during every lesson. 

But the _real _fun began during History.

"_C minus_, Mr. Abrams," mused our teacher, Mr. Strohm, as he held Monday's exam paper before me, letting it linger so as to instil me with the full effect of devastation. "Very disappointing, wouldn't you agree?"

_Very disappointing? _I remember thinking as I gaped at the blood red grade at the top right corner of the page (underlined three times – Mr. Strohm _really _didn't like me,) _There must be some mistake you bearded quack! I've never got anything less than a B in my **life!**_

He let the paper waft from his hands onto the edge of his desk, glowering smugly at my shell-shocked disbelief.

"You're dismissed," he said coolly, leaning back in his chair.

I nodded, distraught, and followed the masses as they spilt into the halls.

"_Damn_, Corky!" cried Jason, demonstrating genuine concern as we both gawked over the poor result. "What is _with _you lately?"

"I-I don't know!" I answered honestly. "It's like……some sort of gung-ho supernatural dogma, or – _something! _I've had nothing but bad luck since yesterday morning!"

"Trippy," he said, following the statement with a low whistle. "Well, have you prayed about it? I mean, maybe this is a wake-up call, or somethin'?"

"A wake-up call to what, Jason?" I asked, squinting and shaking my head incredulously. "I'm Christopher Abrams, the most beloved & hip theist on the west coast! What could God _possibly _want to say that He has to go to this _irritating_ level for me to hear?"

Jason just shook his head.

"I think it's just routine bad luck," I finally conceded, sighing. "You have bad luck, don't you?"

"Sure, I have bad luck," he grinned. "'Member the summer of '94? My cat choked to death after eating my canary. And when we buried it  –"

"—the earthquake brought it back to the surface during your birthday party!" I laughed, nodding enthusiastically. "That's right, how could I forget? I guess I must be going through something like that."

"Y'must be," he smiled, though there was something in his eyes that suggested he'd sided with his first theory. "Hey, have you spoken to Reefer Pittsburgh about the dope?"

"Ah, no!" I cried, dismissively shoving the paper into my backpack as we exited the building. "I should do that now."

"Be discreet, dawg," he cautioned, slapping my back. "'Cause discretion is the, uh……yeah. Be careful."

"I will, don't worry."

*

Looking back now, the situation was more than a little suspicious. Becky, Jason & I had organised an Anti-Drug demonstration for the following day, but in order to actually _demonstrate _the negative properties of narcotics & depressants, I was saddled with the unenviable task of _purchasing _an actual sample of the stuff – from San Marino High's resident dealer, Ricky 'Reefer' Pittsburgh. 

"God Boy?" I remember him grunting in contempt as I approached that afternoon. "What is _you _doin' here?"

"Hi," I smiled, my posture a little rigid. "Uh, I'd like small sample of cannabis, if it's not too much trouble."

A disbelieving laugh escaped his lips as he gaped at me dazedly.

"No way!" he hollered, "This has gotta be some sort o' dream! Am I stoned?"

Judging by the thick, perfumed aroma blanketing his surroundings, (not to mention his personal appearance……and hygiene), I didn't rule out the possibility.

"Will fifty bucks be enough?" I asked, pulling the note from my pocket. 

"Hot _damn_, Jesus freak!" he crowed, giddy with delight as he exchanged my money for a sandwich bag of crushed flora. "Pleasure doin' business with you, but, uh……"

His demeanour became suddenly solemn as he bunched the front of my shirt into his fist.

"……you should know I have a policy on snitchin', y'dig?"

"Yeah, I dig," I nodded, appalled at the amplified odour as the proximity between our faces was narrowed. "I won't tell anybody."

I probably _should_ have, given my cause. I dismissed the notion as a queued mental note. If I were going to rat him out to the higher authorities, I would've at least waited until this lapse of dire misfortune had passed.

"Good," he grinned as he released his hold. "You have a nice day now, aight?"

"Yeah, thanks," I murmured, burying the small baggie deep within my trouser pocket, before turning and hastily leaving.

*

"Mom, I'm home."

"Hola, there, my sweet," she beamed, sticking her head out from the kitchen. "How'd today go, has life improved?"

"Yeah, life's improved," I muttered bitterly as I fell into a seat and ploughed through the tray of fresh brownies before me, "In the eyes of a third-world orphan, maybe."

"Oh, stop that," she scolded, whacking me upside the head. "You're being melodramatic, you know."

She began to babble nonsensically, in which case I instinctively tuned out.

"……it's no wonder……sheltered existence……you're as soft as a baby's hieney……."

I rolled my eyes & stood up, dusting the crumbs off of my shirt.

"Don't forget," she suddenly interrupted herself, "You're picking up Becky on your way to the prayer meeting tonight."

"Awhaw, _no_!" I was heard to moan. "I wanna go to bed."

"Well, see it's _that _kind of attitude that –"

"Ah, forget it, I'm on my way. I'm gonna take a shower first."

"I wouldn't recommend it!" she called with loving reluctance as I slunk away from the kitchen, "Somebody downed the hot water again this morning, apparently."

I felt like crying.

*

I drove with one hand on the wheel that evening. The other massaged my temple, deepening my frown with each motion as the streetlights passed ominously over Mom's car. 

_It just doesn't get any better than this_, I remember thinking as I glared at the deserted road ahead. My eyes darted absently to the sign at the crossroad as I passed through.

'Maple Drive.'

At the last second, I remembered I had to pick up Becky, who lived on the street to the right. I slammed my foot against the brake pedal and yanked the handbrake to slide the back wheels of the vehicle into a 90 degree turn.

Mysteriously, the traffic report from earlier that day struck a chord as the following nine seconds progressed in slow-motion. 

The back wheels, as they slid sideways to level themselves with the road, fell at the mercy of what could only be described as the _biggest _pothole imaginable, the forceful and unexpected _jolt _flipping the entire car onto its roof, bouncing the vehicle violently away from the bitumen, and back onto all four wheels – ironically outside of Becky's house. 

My expression could have been likened to a fish at that moment: vacant eyes bulging from their sockets, and jaw hanging dumbly open. My knuckles were a deathly white as they gripped the wheel like a vice. All I could do was sit, staring petrified through the enormous spider-web crack in the windshield as a few concerned residents emerged from their houses.

"Oh my goodness, _Corky!_" I remember hearing Becky shriek as she exploded from her front door, sprinting valiantly out to my beaten-up automobile. 

She threw the car door open, pried my rigid fingers from their grasp on the wheel, and dragged me onto her front lawn. I must've looked like a corpse: my stoic limbs were suspended, motionless above my body, as if I were still in the seat. I felt her warm tears of concern fall across my face, but that was nothing compared to the _next _sensation – her lips pressed desperately against mine. 

From what I could deduce, she was attempting some sort of resuscitation. But it being Becky, chances are she was exercising some sort of new romantic strategy. And I had to admit, it was……nice. Soft, gentle and minty. I felt my muscles loosen as my limbs fell to the side, and was _beginning _to enjoy myself – until my dazed eyes locked onto the car.

"_Pffo my God!" _I cried, bolting upright and half-headbutting the poor girl. "_The car!!!_"

I scurried to my feet, but fell to my knees just as quickly. The roof had caved, and all of the windows had subsequently fractured. On top of that, the paint job had been mercilessly hacked to the core – a crowd of psychotic golf enthusiasts would have caused less damage. 

I heard Becky whispering prayers of thanks to God for my safety as she rubbed her nose, but I took no heed – I was as furious as I was distraught.

*

I remember uttering a despondent sigh as I sat atop the balcony railing outside my bedroom later that night. Of course, we'd missed the prayer meeting. Mrs. Sanchez had escorted me home after calling in a tow truck to escort the injured vehicle back to our apartment building. Now only the murmured conversation of my mother & the mechanic three floors below broke the stillness of the crisp evening.

I looked up at the full white moon as a thin veil of mist passed over it. And as I was musing over my life as of late, I felt the full force of a _nasty_ spontaneous mental image……

……I saw God. I saw Him with a host of angels. They were cracking open a case of Budweiser's as they sat before a massive 700 inch Plasma television. And they were splitting their sides with gleeful mirth as 'hilarious' instances such as the water main incident, my poor History result, and of course, the car accident played across the screen in agonising slow motion.

This little whim was in jest, of course. Which is why I was so surprised when I felt tears of bitterness sting at my eyes. I heard Mom bid the tow truck driver good night as he clambered into the front seat, and decided to go to bed before she could come upstairs and engage me with a few dozen Bible verses. With a sigh, I dropped from my perch on the balcony railing, only to realise my foot was caught between two bars underneath. Annoyed, I forcefully yanked my leg away – pulling my shoe right off. It fell three stories down……into the back of the tow truck……which rumbled away into the night.

They were new shoes, too. 

"Oh, yes," I could almost hear God holler as He grabbed the remote, "Let's see _that_ one again!!!"


End file.
